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Wednesday, September 30, 2015

I sat in the darkened theater surrounded by 2,498 strangers.
I knew only one person in the room—my friend, Rebecca, with whom I had traveled
to Austin, TX.

I fidgeted in my seat, self-conscious and nervous as I
always am in a large group of women (I have issues), waiting for the event to
begin. Lights dimmed. Sparse stage. Heightened sense of anticipation.

The music began and 2,500 women rose to their feet in
worship.

And suddenly I was among friends.

Twenty-five hundred friends all asking the same question: “If God is real, then what?”

In other words, what kind of difference can we make in our
world if we truly believed that God is real, that He is FOR us, and that He has
good work for us to do for Him?

Important questions in this day and age. Questions of life
and death, really.

Over the past year I have thought often of the words I wrote
down in my notebook last February.

“We are at war and the prize is faith, and we let Satan have it all.
the. time.”

“The story is not about us. It is about a God who can do anything.”

“In every transition in life, Satan will bring a spirit of fear.”

“You cannot hold on to the past and take hold of the future. It’s time
to move on.”

“Jesus is very precious about his church.”

“God has put purpose and potential within you, but it is all for His kingdom. You have to lay
down your life.”

The IF:Gathering changed me. It challenged me. It caused me
to look at things in my life in a new way and to be renewed in my calling to
pursue Christ and the work He has for me.

When the weekend was over, Rebecca and I looked at each
other and said, “We need to bring this home.” We returned to our little tree-lined
neighborhood excited about IF and wanted to share that excitement with women
right here in our own community.

Over the past several months I have prayed about what God
would have me do with all of this. I’ve had conversations with my husband, with
friends, with pastors. And I’ve prayed some more.

In the end, I’ve felt led to bring an IF:Local gathering
here, to Wheaton. I’m taking small steps of faith and obedience in this every
day. I have no idea how God is going to pull this off—it feels kind of big—but
I know without a doubt that He will show up in a big way and that women who
come to the event will leave changed.

A small group of amazing women who share this vision have
come alongside me and we’re making strides and decisions and we’re dreaming big
dreams for our community.

So if you’re in Wheaton, IL on February 5 and 6, 2016, you are
more than welcome to join us. We’ll make sure we have plenty of room.

And if you’re in the area and interested in being involved,
please let me know. (You can find my email address on my “About” page or you
can just leave me a comment below.) Even better, if you attend an area church and want to help
spread the word—everyone’s invited!—please let me know that as well.

This isn't about a church or a person or a movement. It's about women who want more--more of this abundant life that Jesus promises to us. More of HIM.

God has big plans for us, friends. I know this. He wants to
be involved in our lives. He wants us to be brave. He wants us to live to the
glory of His name.

Won’t you join me?

*****

You can find out more about the IF:Gathering here.
Registration for both the Austin and Local gatherings opens next week, so get
ready!

Tuesday, September 22, 2015

This summer I had the incredible opportunity to spend a day
in one of the most beautiful places on earth—the island of Capri, just off the
Amalfi Coast in Italy. This tiny island is both rugged and sophisticated at the
same time. Its beauty is utterly captivating.

B and I, along with our daughter, Kate, had just come off
what was, for me, a harrowing chair lift experience (long story that you can find on Instagram) and decided it was time to find some lunch, so we stopped in
the first restaurant we found. Turns out, it was a good choice—the pizza was
amazing and the views of the Mediterranean Sea were spectacular.

We were seated in the middle of the room because all of the
tables next to the windows were taken by tourists enjoying the view. Everyone,
that is, except for the table next to ours, which was occupied by an American
family—Mom, Dad, and two teenage-ish daughters.

On their phones.

All four of them.

Heads down. Thumbs scrolling.

I watched them, stunned that this was even happening. (Don’t
worry. There was no chance that they’d even notice me staring at them.)

Did they not realize that the spectacularly blue Mediterranean
Sea was about a thousand feet straight below them? Did they not see the
picturesque whitewashed houses with their bougainvillea vines blossoming red?
Did they not appreciate the stunning atmosphere of Capritown with its
cobblestone streets and ritzy shops that smelled of expensive leather?

What on Facebook could be so important that this family
would barely even glance out the window?

Their food came and I thought surely they would put the
phones away—doesn’t everybody do that? But nope, there they sat, eating and
scrolling and not talking.

(Except for one sister to say to the other, “Oh, hey, did
you hear that Tiffany bought a prom dress already?”)

I seriously wanted to send all four of them packing! They
didn’t deserve to be there, in the most beautiful place on Earth eating some of
the freshest tomatoes on the most delicious homemade pasta they will ever taste.

If it hadn’t been for my daughter kicking me under the
table, I probably would have leaned over and said something to them.

More than being annoyed (although I was this, too), I felt
sorry for them. Here was a family that had probably long ago given up trying to
talk to each other. Here were parents who were relieved that their daughters
had found something to do. Here were girls who were glad to not have to
interact. It was all kind of sad to me.

Recently a friend mentioned that in their house they have
“No Phone Zones,” and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about that. This
friend said that the kitchen table was one of their most sacred No Phone Zones
because that is where all the important work got done. The family work. The
work of talking to and learning from each other. The work of acceptance. The
work of communication.

Sacred work.

The view at the kitchen table is a holy view—the eyes of
children and parents looking into one another’s and finding love and restoration. Here is where we look past the blue and green and brown to look
into the hurts or joys of the day. Here is where we check in to see if
everything is all right.

Here is where we look deeply, intently, purposefully at the
most beautiful view on Earth.

Do me a favor today, will you? Establish your table as a No
Phone Zone. Take a few minutes to look one another in the eye, for this is where
love begins and ends. Spend a few minutes checking in, taking account of each
other’s day.

And then spend a few more minutes, lingering over the view.

*****

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Tuesday, September 8, 2015

Earlier this summer the New York
Times ran an article about President Obama’s recent show of emotion in which he admitted
to unexpected tears over his soon-to-be empty nest.

The Times reported, “Mr. Obama has admitted that he has been blindsided recently
by fits of sadness, many of them prompted by the thought of his daughters —
14-year-old Sasha, who graduated this month from middle school, and 16-year-old
Malia, who will go to college next year — growing up.”

I get it, Mr. Obama. I really get it. Funny how they do
that, isn’t it? Grow up?

And how we parents have no say in the matter. It’s really
unfair.

And yet . . . our kids will
grow up and leave us one of these days. It’s just a simple fact of life that
not only they, but we also, have to get used to. Even the President isn't pardoned from this one.

It seems that in my stage of life many of my friends are
going through the same thing. We’re bracing ourselves for the inevitable,
almost like bracing yourself for a head-on collision or a plane crash, which is
exactly what this feels like sometimes. We’re just holding on for dear life.

I received an email recently from a friend who is
struggling with many of the same emotions that President Obama has confessed.
Her oldest left for college a few weeks ago, and she realized that her family would not look the same
again, not even be under the same roof again, for a long time.

My friend said that she’s just not sure how she’s going
to do it, how she’s going to be O.K. amidst all the change going on in her
family, because, as she honestly admitted, “I don’t feel O.K. right now.”

Oh boy, do I ever get that. I really do.

***

Sometime about halfway through my motherhood journey I
recognized this little habit I had developed. I realized that periodically
throughout each day I did a mental check of where each of my children were,
physically. I’m a visual person anyway, and picturing where each of them was at
any given moment gave me a sense of stability, like the ground underneath me
was still firm.

It was much easier to conduct my mental geographical checks when
the girls were younger. Their elementary school was right around the corner from our home; I
even knew where they sat in each classroom. Middle school and high school got a
little trickier because I didn’t know where, specifically, they were throughout
the day, but at least I knew the halls they were roaming.

In college, the mental checks became even more difficult—I
knew they were at school and not somewhere else in the country—but the
geographical checking in started to loosen its hold on me, even though my kids were never far from my thoughts.

The fact of the matter is I don't know where my kids are all the time. I can't possibly.

I fool myself into
thinking that by mentally checking in I have some small bit of control. The truth is, I
don’t have any control. None. And I never really have.

And that’s exactly when the ground shifts beneath our feet, doesn't it? When we realize we don’t know exactly where our kids are every minute of the
day. Or when we begin to recognize that they have formed opinions different from
our own. Or when we send them off to foreign countries and they choose to stay.

We glance around at
our family landscape and we see that this tribe that we have grown, watered, and nourished for the
past 18 years will never look exactly the same again. It’s like the ground
was never really firm beneath us, only made of sand that is now wet and slowly moving underneath our feet, morphing into a new shape.

Our kids grow up.
They grow out. They grow away.

My job is to prepare,
to love, and to loosen my grip.

***

I've read lots and lots of posts lately from sad parents sending their kids off to college. Some, especially the first timers, sound almost despairing:

I just dropped my baby off at college and cried for the entire 15 hour drive home.What will my life be without my child here?Who will I become if I don't have to do his laundry?Come home, little bird! Come home!

I will never say it is easy, this letting go. Plenty of moments I have to stop, take a deep breath, and give myself a little
pep talk that goes something like this: “You’ve done well. Your kids are prepared. This is what
you’ve raised them for, so step back and watch them fly.”

(And a whole lot of
other back and forth that I won’t go into now lest you think I am a complete
lunatic.)

Sometimes the pep talk works; sometimes it doesn’t.

When the pep talk fails, I go back to playing the "where are they?" game. Ridiculous.

Parents, our grown up kids don't need us to keep track of them every minute of the day. They don't need us to visit them at school during the first month (hear me, mama?). They really don't need us to call them every day (I once had a student whose mom called him five times a day!). And they certainly don't need us to show up and do their laundry (they should know how to do that by now).

You know what our kids really need? More than anything, our kids need our prayers. Because here's what I know, what is more sure than my daughters' location on this earth, more comforting that thinking I have done anything to keep them "safe." God hears me. He hears every mournful sigh I breathe. He hears every plea on their behalf. And he answers. I've seen it.

Another thing I know, more certain than the sun coming up each morning: He
knows my kids. He knows their dreams. He knows what they yearn for. He knows what their strengths are. And He loves them so much more than I ever could, so I can be confident He will do what's best for them.

To President Obama and my dear friend, here’s what I would
tell you about your kids: You have loved them well. They are
prepared. This is what you’ve raised them for. Now step back, let go, and watch
them fly.

Tuesday, September 1, 2015

My husband and I went to a concert with some friends last
night. For us, the evening meant the last concert of the summer and a chance to
enjoy a perfect night, a yummy picnic, and Alan Jackson.

Yes, we do still live in the ‘80s.

(Here’s how old we are: AJ didn’t have his first hit until
we had been married five years. Yikes!)

Anyway, after our picnic we headed to our seats,
anticipating all sorts of toe-tapping and two-stepping.

(Well, maybe not the two-stepping. B isn’t much for dancing.)

We settled in. Great seats. Happy campers.

Until a guy sat down in front of B. A very tall guy with
even taller hair, and my husband, who isn’t short himself and doesn’t usually
have trouble seeing over the tops of people’s heads, leaned over and said, “I
can’t see a thing.”

Sorry, honey, I’m not trading seats with you because the
woman in front of me was probably about four feet tall, I’m not even
exaggerating.

I looked at the guy in front of us, and the first thing I
noticed was that he and his wife were smiling. Huge. They were laughing like
kids and saying things like, “These are really good seats!” and “I’m so
excited! This is going to be great!” They seemed almost giddy to be there.

I took notice because who is really like that?

The concert started and that’s when the fun really began. You
would think this guy had won the lottery for life. He was clapping, jumping up
out of his seat, nodding his head, sometimes lost in his own little world of
music. And his wife was the same—pure, unadulterated joy at being at just that
place at just that time.

They got up and danced—a lot—which then made us get out of
our seats and do something that sort of looked like moving to the rhythm but might
not be called dancing. Only because B couldn’t see through the guy and if you
can’t beat ‘em (or see over them) you might as well join ‘em.

But you know what? That made the concert more fun. And soon
all the people around us were dancing and singing to lyrics we haven’t sung in
YEARS.

And it made me realize that pure, unadulterated joy is
missing from my life. Oh sure, I am joyful. I’ve got the joy, joy, joy.

But that childlike bliss. That’s something different.

It’s like the kind you used to feel when you were a kid and
your mom let you go outside on a rainy day and splash in the puddles in your
pajamas and rain boots with no umbrella. You’d jump and jump and make all kinds
of ruckus just because you could. And finally you’d be wet to the skin,
laughing so hard because you just did that wonderful thing in your pajamas with
the rain coming down.

That kind of joy.

I sensed that this guy, whoever he was, lived like this
every day. That every day is a new experience to be had. That every experience
was an opportunity for wonder. That every moment a chance to be filled with a
glorious expression of awe at even being able to be a part of it all.

This man’s sense of joy and wonder was contagious. His
friends seemed genuinely happy to be there. We actually got up out of our seats
and danced. The people around us did too.

All because this guy—a grownup, adult man—was just. so.
happy.

Can you imagine how he approaches his work each day? Yea! I get to go sit in a cubicle and crunch
numbers for eight hours without talking to another human being. But I get to
take a 15 minute break and a 30 minute lunch, which will be awesome. I will get
to solve problems and handle difficult employees, too. And then tomorrow I get
to do it all over again! What a fantastic life!

And, of course, it got me to thinking. What if I lived like
that? What if I approached my day with that kind of attitude? Like, this is going to be so awesome, man!

I wonder if it would make the bigger obstacles seem just a
little smaller and the small problems seems tiny. I wonder if every negative
thought could be reduced by even a small percentage just because I approached
life with a sense of wonder, awe, excitement even.

Because here’s the thing: as Christians, we have everything
to be amazed about, everything to be thrilled about, everything to be downright
giddy about. We are free to get up and dance and to live these lives we’ve been
given with unabashed glee. Of all people, we should be rockin’ that jukebox
(sorry, Alan) and throwing caution to the wind.

So today (and hopefully longer) I’ll be thinking about the
Alan Jackson-loving man, giddy with excitement and thrilled to be in the
moment.

And maybe, just a little more often, I’ll try to live my life
like I’m jumping the heck out of the puddles.